January 10, 2018 by Amy
Holiday Smut
One of my book clubs determined, through a great conversation of great fun that shall not be repeated here (what happens in Book Club stays in Book Club), to read “holiday smut” over the break. I was intrigued. I have never read smut. I swore to never, ever read That Smutty Book Everyone Talked About a Couple Years Ago because I heard right off the bat that it was chock-full of really poor writing. (In fact, I’ve heard it’s so terribly written that I won’t even sully the wall of my blog with its title.) There are too many good books to waste time on sloppy writing, no matter how steamy it is. So when one of my friends offered to recommend a smut book for our December read, I jumped at it. The only smut book I really knew about was the best seller that was made into a movie. Which I also didn’t see because I don’t want to throw good money at poor writing in any form. So to have a smut book recommended for reading over Christmas? Perfect. A whole new genre to explore. I’ve studied the Russian masters, the English classics, the new Americans. Dostoyevske to Shakespeare to Capote to Kerouac. Spent a whole term on Chaucer freshman year of high school. Read Lolita in college because Sting sang Don’t Stand So Close To Me. Fell in love with Dorothy Parker’s wit. But through sheer subconscious purposeful intent luck, I have managed to avoid smut. It’s time to expand my horizons.
Well, the break flew by and I forgot to find the book at the library and now the book club ladies are texting about it and so I went online and put my name on the library hold list for the Kindle version. A waiting list for a library book is usually a pretty good sign that it’s at least decent, so I had high hopes. Late last week I downloaded it to my Kindle and began to read what I would now call post-holiday smut.
I made it 2% in, friends, before I wanted to vomit. Oh, it’s not the smut. No, no. I may not even make it to the juicy parts (my book club girls are texting about horses, and corsets, and other, unmentionable things) because I can’t get past the horrific overuse of adverbs. Especially those attributed to dialogue tags. No one in this damn book can just say something. No, they have to say something a certain way. Apparently emotion can only be expressed by explicitly spelling out how every character says every damn line.
Here are a few examples, taken word for word from the book. I’ll throw in the other verbs the author uses instead of “said,” too, just for shits and giggles. Keep in mind that this is only from the first 2% of the book. 2%, people. That’s not a lot. It’s the prologue.
- Said indignantly
- Said in a matter-of-fact manner
- Snorted
- Muttered
- Interrupted in a low voice
- Said sardonically
- Retorted
- Said flatly
- Said heartily
- Whispered
- Murmured
- Replied with studied nonchalance
- His voice softened
- Said quickly
- Interrupted coolly
- Assured gravely
- Whispered sharply
- Replied candidly
- Say easily
- Said with patent satisfaction
- In a soft but murderous tone
- Said over his shoulder
- Countered innocently
- Informed her in a superior tone
- Frowned
- Said dryly
- Continued uneasily
- Said breathlessly
- Rueful murmur
- Enthused
In fact…this is all from one scene. For the love of all that’s holy, woman. Knock it off with the dialogue tags.
Alas. I do not think I will find out what happens to Annabelle and Simon, beyond the first kiss that involved her “lifted blindly into the tenderly restless caress of his lips.”
Yeah, nope. That did it. Gone to vomit. Back in a moment. Blerg.
The last line of the prologue: “…he was a man to be avoided at all cost.”
Methinks this book is to be avoided at all cost, lest my brain turn to mush. She wrote scornfully.
Also, way to go on dumping a truckload of blatant foreshadowing. Of course she will not avoid the man who was to be avoided at all cost. Duh. What kind of plot would that be?
Having heard terrible things about the writing in That Other Book and now having squeamed* through the prologue of this one, I have to wonder if this is a genre thing. Is there such a thing as fine literature that’s also titillating, or does one have to over-enthusiastically annihilate dialogue to tantalize? Surely there has to be a way to marry high-quality prose with pure, unmitigated smut, right? Or is this the print equivalent of asking a porno to be Oscar-worthy?
Maybe it’s me. There’s a huge market for this stuff, a whole category of books I doubt I will ever enjoy due to my snobby prudish insistence on not slaughtering the English language. Damn you, high standards. She thought wistfully but with a touch of pride.
Pretty sure I’ll skip the rest of the book and enjoy listening to my friends discuss the details at our next meeting. There will be wine and beer, and the discussion will be far more entertaining than the book could ever possibly be. Hell, the pre-meeting text thread alone should be shortlisted for a Pulitzer by comparison.
I just reviewed the list of adverbs torturously applied to dialogue tags. “Replied with a studied nonchalance” is growing on me. Oh lord, I shall have to kill myself in a soft but murderous tone.
*Yeah, that’s right, I invented a new word. Squeamed is the past-tense verb of squeamish. If that author can browbeat her readers with adverbs, I can invent words. Hey, Shakespeare did it all the time, and he’s no slouch. She said with patent satisfaction.
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